Today It felt as if some threshold was crossed.
it was the smallest feeling,
Just a slight movement
Somewhere in my thinking,
And so I crossed into a place
Where I once was not.
I think I have made a small,
Very small,
Step towards being an actual poet.
I do not use the term on myself.
Ever,
I do not like to call myself such a thing,
Because honestly,
I think the term should be reserved for
People who are better than I.
And for once,
I was closer than ever to using
The term "art" on what I do.
Because,
In typical parent-teenager fashion,
I am not allowed to go somewhere.
I am rather annoyed.
I am being barred from going to a poetry reading.
A 24-hour one, in Columbus, on a Saturday night.
And those are three main reasons as to why I cannot go,
Fo you see,
I am 16.
And apparently this bars me from doing things that are enjoyable.
And I very much almost spouted,
"But it's to further my art!"
And then I quickly decided it was a silly thing to say,
It would fall upon deaf ears.
Perhaps earn a laugh.
And so I smolder in silence,
Over a petty issue.
So if anybody wants to
You know, go with me.
I'm very open to the notion.
I have thought of another reason why I do not
Call myself a poet.
Saying it just sounds pretentious.
It makes you sound like a plaid-clad,
Pabst-drinking, Buddy Holly-glasses-wearing hipster.
It's somehow pretentious.
And I don't like that.
It seems weird
To bring up conversations
I've had with a teacher of mine,
But I liked this one, quite a bit.
We were talking,
About poetry,
Because we do that on Thursdays sometimes.
And he was talking about a poem I'd written,
One about the sea and sky all blending together,
And he seemed very struck by the idea
Of being in a boat and actually experiencing such a thing.
I have not done so, nor has he.
And he says "I never thought of just sitting on a boat,
Even on Lake Erie, for the 20 years I lived there."
And I told him that he should do it when he gets a chance,
And he must tell me about it.
It struck me somehow.
And I like the idea.
It was just, intriguing.
I have nothing lovely to tell you today,
I suppose.
I just,
Had to say something.
Have a poem: Each Other, Ill
-
If we fall,
You and I,
Victim to fever in the night,
As we toss and turn
In restless dreams.
-
As we open the windows
Of our small souls,
So they may bleed together,
As we open the windows to the cool
Sea air,
To soothe our burning brows.
And we drink in the thought of each other,
Lying so close,
Our skin,
Burning,
Singeing
As it brushes against
The other's.
As we drink in the
Stars,
Our hungry gazes roving the skies,
No more shielded from us.
-
And in the night,
If we fall into quivering
Chills, as fever claims our faculties
Of mind,
We shall cling to whatever is left of the
Other.
As we stare, both,
Into a distance unknown to a man,
Who has not fallen victim to this,
A sickness from which there
Is no true cure,
But to grasp for each other's hands,
And let our eyes focus
High above our heads.
-
When we have shed the last of the blankets,
And the windows are all thrown open wide,
The curtains, breathing, as if alive.
We are in the throes of what has claimed us,
Sickened us,
Made the stars dance on our eyes.
And the cool breeze tickle our arms.
-
You and I,
If we fall into this,
And are swallowed,
So that we may only have each other's
Arms to clasp,
As we succumb,
And are soon tunnel-visioned.
-
What is left of us,
Resides in the other.
As we fall into illness.
-
(Inspired by "Love is a Sickness"- by Samuel David)
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